She Was the Treasure All Along novel Chapter 980

The following days settled into a steady rhythm.

Helena still went to the hospital every afternoon, but her demeanor had completely shifted.

When she walked into the room, she offered a perfectly polite, entirely professional smile. "Good afternoon, Mr. Lonsdale." "How is the pain in your hand today?" "The therapist noted we can increase the intensity of the exercises a bit."

Her voice was smooth, her vocabulary strictly clinical. The hidden, desperate affection and subtle intimacy that used to bleed into her tone were completely gone.

Morris knew exactly why she had pulled away. She was establishing boundaries for Swain's sake. Logically, it was the right thing to do. But the dark, possessive beast locked inside his hollow chest roared in protest every time she called him *Mr. Lonsdale*.

During their previous, highly intense physical relationship, his absolute dominance had effectively branded her as *his* in his own mind, even if he hadn't fully consciously accepted it yet.

He forced the irrational fury down, but he couldn't stop his eyes from tracking her every movement from the bed.

When Helena sat on the sofa to compose, she no longer chewed on her pencil or scowled in frustration. She worked in quiet, fluid concentration. She would pause to think, then write with absolute certainty.

Within a week, she submitted the completed first draft.

Yelena Yates reviewed it overnight and texted her the very next morning: *This is lightyears ahead of your last draft. You finally figured out where you're going.*

Staring at the glowing screen, Helena let out a massive breath. She put her phone away, packed her bag, and headed to the hospital, feeling lighter than she had in months.

When she pushed the door open, she was surprised to find Morris wasn't reading.

He was leaning against the headboard with a laptop perched on his bedside table. He was using his uninjured left hand to tap out a melody on a digital keyboard layout. It was a piece she had never heard before.

Helena stood quietly by the door, watching him improvise.

The music filling the room was incredibly complex, but it carried a brutal, suffocating undertone. It sounded cold, heavy, and violently repressed.

Maybe the reality of his ruined hand was finally getting to him. No matter how indifferent he acted on the outside, the trauma had to be festering underneath.

She walked over and dropped her bag on the sofa. "You're arranging."

Morris's fingers stopped over the keys. He glanced at her. "Just killing time."

"Are you in a bad mood?" she asked quietly.

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